Page:Beachy Head and Other Poems.pdf/114

106

Swift o'er the animated current sweep, And bear their silver captives from the deep.

Sons of the North! your streamy vales With no rich sheaves rejoice and sing; Her flowery robe no fruit conceals, Tho' sweetly smile your tardy spring; Yet every mountain, clothed with ling, Doth from its purple brow survey Your busy sails, that ceaseless bring To the broad frith, and sheltering bay, Riches, by Heaven's parental power supplied,— The harvest of the far embracing tide.